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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057692">Professor de Lettenhove</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell'>Askell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Character Study, Confusion, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Falling In Love, Fluff, HUGE misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Mentions of Death, Misunderstandings, One Braincell, Oxenfurt Academy, Silver Fox, Some Humor, as am i, bard academy, did i mention drop dead gorgeous jaskier, friends to idiots to lovers, geralt is weak and wanting, hot as hell middle aged jaskier, mature jaskier, mostly thirst, no one dies, silver fox jaskier, the thirst - Freeform, there was two, thirsty geralt of rivia, university professor jaskier, we thought there was one silver fox in this house</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:55:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Visiting Oxenfurt Academy while looking for Jaskier, Geralt met the incredibly charismatic Professor de Lettenhove. Silver coursed through his hair in refined lines, giving his short beard an air of distinction and rank. Even without the signet ring shining at his finger, there was no doubt regarding the man’s identity. Geralt may have not found Jaskier, but perhaps his father could tell him where to find his son.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>484</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oxenfurt Academy, the renowned jewel adorning Redania’s throat. Set on the middle of an island, its mighty walls enjoyed the lazy spring sun. Geralt, boiling alive in his black armor, experienced regret. It was a mistake nearly as colossal as the words which had led him there in the first place. A full decade of searching high and low, turning every stone and visiting enough brothels to start writing his own tourism guide, all in search of one man. Had he paid more attention, the journey wouldn’t have lasted more than half a year. Of course, he had to be where Geralt expected him the least.</p><p>The witcher raised his eyes to the orientation panel. On varnished wooden arrows were indicated “Department of Herbology”, “Department of Health Studies”, “Department of Elder Speechcraft”... ah, finally “General information”. A few students passed by him, whispering intensely with pointed stares. Having lived as long as he did, Geralt knew when maidens coveted his person. He did not exactly expect young men to give him the same kind of attention, not as forwardly at least. He kept his eyes upward, avoiding any unintentional encouragement in either direction. </p><p>In the information booth, a man lazily sat in a comfortable-looking chair, eyes riveted on a cheap novel. There was an impressive collection of porcelain cats around him. He barely raised an eyebrow when Geralt called his attention. Feeling his frayed patience melt like fresh snow, he nearly crushed the tiny bell with his palm. The man deigned to look up, not very impressed. </p><p>“Enrollment is closed, you’ll have to come back next winter.”</p><p>Geralt growled from the back of his throat. In what kind of world did he look like a potential student of the arts, clad in studded leather and two swords on his back. It was thanks to Vesemir’s perseverance that he knew how to read at all, and did not enjoy doing it. The secretary scoffed, coming to the same conclusion. He turned his head back to his book. Geralt wanted to make him eat it from where food usually comes out.</p><p>“I am looking for a bard.”</p><p>“Look, man, there are more than seven hundred students-”</p><p>“Goes by the name Jaskier, brown hair, blue eyes, with the face of a coward.”</p><p>“So, like, more than two third of the students.”</p><p>Geralt crunched the tiny bell in his hand. He felt brief satisfaction seeing the man finally pale a little. “Last I checked he carries an elven lute.”</p><p>“Well we have a few students like that,” the secretary said quickly, sitting straighter under the witcher’s hard gaze. “But there’s only one with blue eyes, and he’s a professor. Professor de Lettenhove. Room 604, third floor you can’t miss it.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Geralt dropped the deformed bit of metal on the man’s lap. </p><p>“Wait!” the secretary had the gall to call after him. “You can’t disturb his lecture! Just sit at the back and don’t make a noise or they’ll slaughter you.”</p><p>Rolling his eyes at the empty warning, Geralt followed the instruction until he found the room. Judging by the space between its two doors, it was one of the large ones with amphitheater-style seat arrangement. He may not have been a student for long, Kaer Morhen happened to have one of these as well. Mostly used to display taxidermied creatures under multiple angles. A soft but complex melody echoed through the wooden doors. He guessed they had no straw-filled wyverns. A shame.</p><p>Though he wanted to burst in with not a care in the world, the thought of being stared at blankly by two dozen students was an unnerving one. With his full witcher sneaking abilities, Geralt entered the room and sat at the back, or at least tried to. Instead of two dozen, there were at least fifty students, forcing him to sit on the stairs just behind two enthusiastic maidens. Occupying the center stage, a middle aged man was playing the harp. </p><p>Silver coursed through his hair in refined lines, giving his short beard an air of distinction and rank. Though his clothes were brighter than most men preferred, it was in line with Redanian nobility standards and highlighted his lithe figure. There were fine lines around his closed eyes, making him look wise. Even without the signet ring shining at his finger, there was no doubt regarding the man’s identity. Geralt may have not found Jaskier, but perhaps his father could tell him where to find his son. </p><p>The man was captivating in ways Jaskier was only a pale copy of. His fingers fluttered on the strings with an expertise tampered in time and patience, with such technique that even a profane man had to admire. Dignity was draped on his shoulders like a mantle. Geralt found himself wishing he had met him before meeting his son, an idle sort of warmth pooling in his gut. Mastery had always impressed him. </p><p>Though he had intended to grab the bard by the scruff and bring him along on the road, or perhaps to be told in no polite words to find another travel companion, Geralt stayed until the end of the lecture. When Professor de Lettenhove was finished playing, he took the time to explain his technique in a deep, soothing voice. The man suspended time at the bridge of his lips. </p><p>Once, his eyes landed on Geralt. There was a streak of white in only one of his eyebrows, which he raised as if challenging him. Perhaps reputation followed him, or the professor did not expect witchers to be able to appreciate music. Most people didn’t, neither did witchers themselves. And yet.</p><p>A full hourglass emptied before students were released in flocks of excited chatter. The feeling agitating Geralt’s gut burned a hole in his core, both pining him in place and pushing him to flee the room. He couldn’t believe he was nervous. He was back in his lanky teenager body, unable to ask questions to his professors, and no longer a well over a hundred years old witcher who told kings to go fuck themselves.</p><p>“What brings you to Oxenfurt?” asked Professor de Lettenhove in a falsely detached, deeply careful voice. His eyes pierced through Geralt’s armor.</p><p>“I am looking for someone.” To anyone his voice would have sounded gruff and not adequately deferential. He knew it translated into something akin to a stutter. Somehow, the small tug on the professor’s lips meant the other man perfectly knew as well. </p><p>“Is that so?” he said, crossing his arms.</p><p>They were at arm’s length, the witcher standing stiff as a man’s virtue in the early morning, the professor resting his hip against a desk, catlike in his demeanor. </p><p>“A young man I used to know,” he conceded. “I believe he might be your son.”</p><p>The professor’s eyebrows shot up, eyes growing comically wide as he uncrossed his arms to bring a hand to his mouth. The exaggeration took away ten years from him, and made the resemblance painfully obvious. </p><p>“My son? Melitele’s tits, how…?” he stumbled on his words. “How old is he? Did he mention his mother’s name?”</p><p>“Around twenty to thirty years of age. He never talked about his parents.”</p><p>“I see…” Professor Lettenhove tousled his hair, and Geralt had to fight back wanting his hand to ruin the man’s hairdo as well. “I mean, he wouldn’t, would he? I can’t believe- And you thought you would find him here?”</p><p>“He’s a bard.”</p><p>He chuckled sadly. “The apple never falls far from the tree, I guess. Well, I do need a drink and you as well. Come, let’s go to my office.”</p><p>Testimony to the respect due to him, Professor de Lettenhove’s office had a fantastic view of the lake surrounding Oxenfurt Academy. It was a comfortable room filled with memorabilia and handwritten notes. Precious instruments, wilted flower bouquets and perfume bottles permeated the office in a heady but pleasant scent. Geralt couldn’t help but notice women’s items here and there: embroidered handkerchiefs, one or two hairpins, a single forgotten lace mitten. </p><p>The professor had poured the both of them something sweet-smelling and sweeter-tasting, the kind of treacherous Toussaint vintage that spins the head and loosens tongues faster than you’d believe. It was also incredibly expensive. </p><p>“How is he, my son? Do not tell me his name just yet, it would only deepen the guilt.”</p><p>“Hmm.” He shifted in his seat, feeling more comfortable than he ought to be. “He’s a fool. Never dressed adequately. Always in trouble.”</p><p>The man snorted, managing the feat never to lose any of his elegance doing so. “We really are alike, aren’t we?”</p><p>Geralt didn’t exactly smile, but he felt his jaw relax. “The physical resemblance is uncanny, you couldn’t deny paternity if you wanted to.”</p><p>“You mentioned he’s a bard, as well.”</p><p>“Not a very good one.”</p><p>“If you intend to compare us, remember that I have more than forty years of training,” the professor said in a teasing tone, his eyes glinting with something like fondness. “I began like all young, ambitious musicians, like him. Sure, I walked far more than most of them ever do, but I had good company.”</p><p>There was something implied in the man’s words which he expected Geralt to understand, to react to. He could feel it in the weight of the other man’s gaze, the way he was angled forward in the witcher’s direction. His propensity to ignore seats in favor of desks meant the witcher had to raise his eyes to talk, when most of the time he was the one people had to lift their heads to. He cooked in his armor, though no longer because of the sun. </p><p>Professor de Lettenhove held his gaze expectantly a few moments more before sighing deeply. He got to his feet in a swift movement, going to prop his shoulder against the window, arms crossed. The rim of his cup did not touch his lips, but rested a breath shy of his skin. </p><p>“It’s in the past now. All the walking, the hunting, the fighting.” He pressed the cup to his mouth, then seemed to think better and lowered it again. “How’s Yennefer?”</p><p>The witcher grunted with annoyance. “Of course you would have heard of her.”</p><p>“Of course I would have,” he scoffed. “I take it you two are still star-crossed lovers only fairy tales have the likes of?”</p><p>“We were never like that.” He drank angrily.</p><p>“Well, you know how us bards like stories, and how we cannot resist a good tragedy. Tell me about your great loves.”</p><p>“They don’t exist.”</p><p>“Just like monsters in songs, am I right?” </p><p>Again, that look of shared history. But it couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence, Geralt wasn’t even sure those were the exact words he said, so many years ago. It simply couldn’t be, and yet…</p><p>"I must go," he replied instead, bothered by the intensity focused on him.</p><p>Professor de Lettenhove looked briefly defeated, but his expression shifted into a more diplomatically friendly one. </p><p>"If you must, I won't hold you. Come to my lecture, tomorrow. It will cover epic poetry, and what better than a living legend to illustrate the topic?"</p><p>"Hmm," the witcher grunted, a negative reply refusing to leave the tip of his tongue. "...Maybe."</p><p>He was at the door when he felt the professor's hand on his forearm, light as a feather, commanding as an officer. The man was close enough for Geralt to see the fine lines of his face, the wild mix of white and brown in his hair, the warmth of his eyes. The professor was smiling.</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>The next morning, with full intent to be on the road and deal with his quest without involving any musician at all, Geralt found himself facing several rows of bright-eyed students. Resting lightly on his shoulder, the professor's hand was the pin holding the beetle on a frame. No amount of iron resolve could have moved him.</p><p>"...-now, not all witchers are as noble as Sir Geralt of Rivia," professor de Lettenhove kept lecturing. "And not a single one has ever met…" Cue dramatic pause. "A gold dragon."</p><p>Many hands raised. "Now, now," the professor chuckled. "I'm sure all of you heard the ballad, but what about a first-hand account? What do you say, Geralt?"</p><p>A simple black shirt separated the warmth of his hand from the witcher's skin. He could smell tea, wood polish and faded roses. Geralt regretted deeply not having saddled his horse at sunrise. Then the professor started talking so passionately about storytelling that he needed both hands, gesturing and walking and brimming with childlike energy. His eyes shone with a love the witcher doubted he could ever feel himself. </p><p>Packs of students nearly leapt off their seats to ask him questions. What was the name of his horse? Could he describe the dragon in more details? Is the sorceress the same one who’s mentioned is the other songs, or the nice one? Curiously, none asked about the bard who wrote all these songs. It seemed to be such commonplace information that no one bothered. </p><p>"Thank you again for today," the professor was saying, carefully packing his lute. "They're usually a little more asleep on first period but we can't blame them for being enthusiastic."</p><p>The witcher grunted. He did not enjoy a single second of it, cared not for youthful energy and missed empty forests. Yet, here he was. The students has insisted on seeing his swords, his medallion, his hair. He had very nearly told them to fuck off. </p><p>"I know you would rather die than being the center of attention again, so I will not ask. But you're welcome to sit in the back and listen after lunch, if you want."</p><p>Geralt did not give the man an answer, pointedly avoided looking at his encouraging smile. </p><p>"And in the meantime, perhaps you'd like to join me." Geralt would not look at him. "For lunch, I mean. There is a very nice hostel just across the bridge. My treat.”</p><p>The witcher would later try to convince himself that the promise of free food was his only motivation. It truly was a nice place, with nice food and nice waiters. Geralt didn’t like it. The table was too small, the professor’s knees were almost touching his. In the intimate space, his clothes were too tight, his chest felt burning. </p><p>“Relax, Geralt,” the professor smiled, his left hand under his chin. “I swear you look like a colt about to jump across a puddle.”</p><p>“Professor-”</p><p>The man scoffed, offended. “Call me by my name.”</p><p>“I do not know it.”</p><p>“Oh, I never told you right? It’s Julian. My real name is Julian.” Again with that strange turn of phrase. With these glinting eyes. Geralt could not read what the man meant. </p><p>Spring days passed in Oxenfurt, honey-gold and about as sweet. Students grew accustomed to the strange witcher who always seemed to hang around their classes. The man never really spoke to anyone, not unless they came to him first. A cluster of quieter people formed around him, each for their own reasons. There was the girl who wanted to focus on her studies, the boy who was flinching at loud voices, the other boy who never talked much but often smiled, among others. Their strange classmate never seemed to mind.</p><p>Some weeks he would disappear several days at a time, turning up the next Monday with fresh cuts on his arms. One time, he simply didn’t turn up at all. Students could tell their professor was getting worried, for it was no secret that the two men shared a long history. It was in the nervous energy propelling him to walk throughout the classroom, the way he rubbed his thumb and index finger, never bearing his hands to stay idle for too long.</p><p>“Attention please,” he called one day, using his best scene training to keep his voice even. “I have received a letter from our dear friend Geralt. He will not return for a while, possibly-” There it was, the crack. “Possibly ever. He tells me in his own words that he enjoyed knowing all of you. Now, let us get back to Elven-”</p><p>One student rose up forcefully. She was the silent girl with the mousy hair, the one he had reassured one time when she had cried in his office, told her grades weren’t that important.</p><p> “What are you still doing here?” she cried with indignation. “Go get your man!”</p><p>Another boy rose, still smiling. “Go get your man, Jaskier! He’s avoided you long enough!”</p><p>The professor held up his hands. “Now, that is entirely inappropriate-”</p><p>“Great romance dies when the poet gives up!”</p><p>“Don’t quote me-”</p><p>“Were all these songs for nothing? Go get your man!”</p><p>More and more students rose up, creating a riot the school seldom saw outside of carnival season. Fortified by their sentiment, Professor de Lettenhove saw himself back on that mountaintop. He wouldn’t be abandoned again. </p><p>“Alright. I still expect your essays when I’m back.” He smiled, feeling young again. Geralt wouldn’t slip between his fingers once again. He was going to get his man.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>More pining. More misunderstandings. More idiots in love, and a few special guests ;)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all so much for all the love and support you sent me, it really means a lot &lt;3 </p><p>This was supposed to be the last chapter, but I just loved writing them so much that it turned into a transition before the big reveal ;) The story and relationships here are closer to book and game canon, if they feel slightly ooc it's probably because I'm trying to find a middle ground between all canon sources</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier’s tender thighs longed most dearly for a hot bath, a nice bed and perhaps even nice hands to rub salves in his sore muscles. His spine hurt as if someone had shoved a red-hot rod through his backside. No part of him missed this very aspect of being on the road. A vicious little voice at the back of his head murmured he was past the age of riding for days. He dutifully ignored it.</p><p>There was a thrill in his core at the idea of being alone after so long. Not exactly a fear, though he had no idea what to do if brigands chose him as their target, but a close cousin to doubt. A childhood friend of anxiety. The same feeling which nearly knocked the air out from his lungs when he first saw Geralt sitting at the back of his classroom.</p><p>Oh, he had seen him many times in the years during which they did not meet. Almost caught his shadow on lonely days, imagined his lips in feverish dreams.  Never more than a glimpse born out of heartache. Seeing him for real this time, he had hesitated to punch or kiss him, settling for neither. It was too sweet a torture to have him back, too painful a relief to watch him go again. </p><p>Of course, he had barely changed. A few more scars here and there, the finest lines around his eyes and mouth. Longer hair, for once clean enough to imagine running one’s hand through it. Same armor. New horse.</p><p>Jaskier would be damned if years on wooden planks hadn’t taught him how to act, and act he did. Played the professor as he had for many years, old and wise and just a hint of scandalous. Then, this whole nonsense about Jaskier’s ‘son’. </p><p>“What a fucking idiot,” he swore under his cloudy breath, cursing the man who had put him on the road at the doors of winter. “When I find him I’ll kill him, revive him, and kill him again. Fuck.”</p><p>At first he had believed him - why wouldn’t he? Believed that somewhere in the world existed a young bastard of his, pretty as a flower, not a single drop of self-preservation to his name, finding a way to keep company to the most famous witcher of the continent. Seemed very much like something his genes would produce. Until that one day when he finally understood that Geralt was every bit of the oaf everyone who knew him said he was.</p><p>It had been a most pleasant day, enhanced by the fact that his afternoon classes had been cancelled. Finding the witcher idling around on campus, he had managed to convince the man to come visit his home and spend their free time reminiscing of the past around a bottle of vodka. He knew him well enough to know he couldn’t resist such an offer. </p><p>A regular -generous- salary had allowed Jaskier to afford a nice apartment downtown, built in the Toussaint style with hanging plants and a small balcony over the inside court. A lovely little nook in blue tiles and colored glass. They had been lounging there like the old friends they were, drinking in the hot sun and trading stories. If their legs happened to brush more than strictly necessary, Jaskier could always blame it on the alcohol. He couldn’t, however, blame on it the adoring look he knew lit up his eyes. His cheeks strained from smiling so much. </p><p>“Hard to believe none of these men ever managed to catch you,” the witcher snorted, drinking to Jaskier’s swift legs and propension to evade jealous husbands.</p><p>“Some did, my ass will forever remember it.”</p><p>Geralt hesitated for a second, the tilt of his head telling Jaskier all he needed to know about his intention to make a very bad joke.</p><p>“I thought it was only the wives you bedded?”</p><p>“Oh fuck you,” the bard laughed, slapping his shoulder in retribution. “As if you never had any trouble with bedding married women.”</p><p>“Don’t need a witcher’s eyesight to see a wedding band on their hand.”</p><p>“But there’s the thing, darling. They take it off!”</p><p>The witcher hid an amused smile behind his glass. These were very nice glasses, won in a hand of gwent, clear pink with swirls of gold on the rim. They tasted only sweeter for the victory.</p><p>“Alright then, tell me one story I wouldn’t believe happened to you,” Jaskier challenged him, placing his hand on the witcher’s forearm. Where it belonged, supplied a small voice at the back of his head. </p><p>A few birds flew overhead, pushed by a gust of warm wind. Protected as their were by the house’s halls, they smelled nothing of the streets behind, only the hanging jasmin. Geralt looked down, silent for a moment. </p><p>“I met the kings of the elves.”</p><p>Jaskier waited. He knew that already. Had something naughty happened between the two that he wasn’t aware of? Surely it was something else, but how could’ve he missed it, plastered at the witcher’s side then?</p><p>“Your son was with me,” Geralt continued, still looking back in his own mind.</p><p>“What the hell?”</p><p>“I think he wrote a song about this, a long time ago.”</p><p>“Toss a coin to your witcher?” No, it couldn’t be…</p><p>Geralt grunted, looking visibly annoyed. “Hmm. Don’t remind me, it will get stuck in my head.”</p><p>All Jaskier remembered of the end of this conversation was himself pushing his guest at the door in a rather rude fashion, pretending he forgot a rendezvous with his paramour within the hour. It took all of his restraint not to rage at stupid witchers, but the nice vodka glasses didn’t escape his anger intact. A pillow on his face to avoid being heard by his neighbours, Jaskier had yelled some very creative insults until his throat felt raw enough to cancel the next two day’s classes. If Geralt suspected he was the reason of Jaskier’s mood change, he said nothing. </p><p>Then things went on as usual, with more flirt and less hope of it actually landing anywhere. Perhaps he really did manage to offend a god of love, Melitele and her ample bosom herself, or some other among the myriad he studied so long ago. Enterprising women revealed jealous husbands, witty countesses revealed unbearable attitude, gorgeous garroters revealed sheer stupidity. Yet, hearts without love don’t break on their own. </p><p>Dawn sipping away the shreds of winter sun around him, Jaskier opted for a small relay he had seen on his map before being swallowed in darkness. He was too damn old to sleep under the stars. The place was pleasant enough, humble but rather clean and not too populated. Unlike taverns, relays were only meant for messengers and emissaries to have a quick rest on their journey. As such, rooms tended to be more expensive, but the company a bit more educated. </p><p>Two burly men had their backs turned to him, the width of their shoulders and studded clothes indicating a profession of the sword. As he tilted his head to smirk at his companion, one of the men showed a gnarly scar coursing from eyebrow to chin. Mangled as it was, his cheek appeared to be too stiff to smile on both sides of his face. There was something in the man of the old tomcat, one ear and a good half of his tail lost defending his master's fields, which he probably thought were his. Scar aside, Jaskier thought he wasn’t unattractive, which said a lot about his preferences. </p><p>He kept observing the two as he ate a bowl of stew a few tables away. Something about them evoked distant times. The other man, built like a brickhouse and looking about as sturdy, spoke loudly and laughed louder. In spite of his absence of table manners, his energy drew Jaskier to rise at the end of his meal, lute in hand. As expected, a few rowdy songs later he was invited to come closer and share an ale with the pair. </p><p>It was too late to back down when he got close enough to notice their matching yellow, slitted eyes. </p><p>“What brings you to these parts of the world, the Academy?” asked the witcher with the scars, fiddling with his tankard.</p><p>“Just left it some nights ago. I’m looking for- for a friend. The dean had a steady debt of paid vacation he owed me, anyway.”</p><p>“Tough weather for taking a few days off,” intervened the other man. “What’s her name?”</p><p>“It’s not-” </p><p>“Come on, Jaskier, you’re always after someone’s wife or sister,” the witcher snickered. “Used to drive our brother mad, having to rescue your feral ass all over the place. Don't tell me it's a nun this time, you weasel.”</p><p>“Hold on, hold on. We know each other. Don’t we?” Jaskier leaned forward, scrambling to remember where the hell he might have met the pair.</p><p>“I’m so offended I could actually kill you,” deadpanned the man, before smirking to indicate a joke.</p><p>“Oh! You’re the prick!” </p><p>“The fuck did you say?”</p><p>“Wait- it’s Geralt, he told me this stupid limerick... Your name is, uh. I think it’s Lambert?”</p><p>Both witchers proved to be pleasant companions for the night, sharing memories of the embarrassing flavor about Geralt’s childhood and reminiscing times when he made a fool of himself throughout his adult years. Jaskier’s throat was parched from laughing too much, imagining a gangly teenager with spiky white hair wrestling goats and drinking unlabeled potions on a dare. His heart tightened in fondness when he heard about how Geralt saw himself as a knight out of a folktale, pushed on the Path by destiny to defend the poor and the weak. How on his first day out, the ugliness of the world managed to break his young heart and shatter his ideals. His dreams had the flavor of old tears. </p><p>The trio reached Corvo Bianco a few days later. It was a blindingly beautiful estate perched on top of lush vineyards, sunkissed and crowned by millennial ivy. Jaskier couldn’t imagine his friend living in such a place, much less owning it. A peak of long white hair had his heart fighting through his ribs, then dive to the ground when instead of Geralt a young woman greeted them. She kissed both coy witchers on the cheeks, calling them her uncles. Facing Jaskier, the young woman’s jaw fell down.</p><p>“No way… Jaskier? Oh gods,” she blurted, wringing her hands while her scarred cheeks borrowed the color of rose bushes. “I can’t believe- he said he didn’t find you! My name is Ciri, I’m so happy you could make it. Please, come in.”</p><p>There was no star Jaskier could compare to her smile to without insulting it. It was warmer than Corvo Bianco’s sunbaked tiles, shining up to the small crinkles of her eyes. A beautiful house, a beautiful maiden, the warmest winter, no wonder Geralt had left him without a word. There was no blaming him for preferring it to the crowded corridors of Oxenfurt. Jaskier grinned through the aches in his chest.</p><p>“Geralt told me so much about you,” Ciri was saying, holding the other half of the drapes they were setting over his bed. Upon seeing her arranging the guest room on her own, he had done the gentlemanly things and offered his help. “All his stories are so old though, no offense but if not for your fame I would have thought you dead already.”</p><p>“At any rate, my back feels like it after all this riding,” he grunted, mimicking the witcher without truly intending to.</p><p>Ciri’s laugh jumped on the walls like spring rabbits.</p><p>“That’s exactly how he speaks!”</p><p>“Here’s a little secret: all it takes is a gravelly voice and an affinity for wolves’ idiosyncrasies.” Jaskier tucked the blanket under the straw mattress, then rubbed his aching back as elegantly as he could manage. “Forgive my directness, but I must ask. Are you a relative of Geralt’s?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m his… well in a way you could say he’s my father. Raised me, taught me how to fight, all that. Not from birth, but after. I guess you must have played for my grandmother once or twice, but I didn’t exist back then.”</p><p>“For your… Ah, I see. Yes, I remember the Law of Surprise.”</p><p>“Indeed. Twenty-Five years ago, can you believe it? Well, twenty-five and a few days but everyone wasn’t there to celebrate, unlike today.”</p><p>“Happy birthday, your majesty,” he bowed. “I will be honored to play for you as well.”</p><p>Crossing her impressively defined arms, Ciri snorted like a common sellsword. “I sure hope you do tonight! And loose the etiquette, or I’ll start calling you Sir.”</p><p>“Please don’t,” he winced. </p><p>“Hey Ciri, have you seen Eskel-” Geralt walked in the room, freezing right in his tracks when he saw Jaskier. “Why are you here?”</p><p>There was only curiosity in his voice, but it hit Jaskier like a punch in the face. He hadn’t really planned for such a situation, imagining he would find the witcher knee-deep in monster innards or perhaps in a cell. Not preparing his daughter’s birthday.</p><p>“Well,” he said, proud to hear only the tiniest waver in his voice. “Someone has to play for Lady Ciri-”</p><p>“Just Ciri,” she reminded him.</p><p>“For Ciri’s birthday! It would shatter my poor old heart if you had hired anyone else than yours truly. And best of all, my music will be my gift.”</p><p>“Come on,” Ciri intervened, jokingly punching Geralt’s shoulder with a strength that would have had any lesser man stumbling. “I know you’re getting old, but senile? You said you would invite him.”</p><p>Golden light poured from the window, catching on Geralt’s lips, caressing the sharp angle of his jaw. His Adam’s apple bobbed, dragging soft shadows in its path. Shining against his skin, the wolf medallion’s chain begged from teeth to catch it within a kiss. The distance between them had reduced enough, somehow, for idle thoughts of taking two strides and stealing the air from his lungs. </p><p>“I didn’t invite him, but he is my guest,” the witcher said barely above a whisper, eyes lured by Jaskier’s. “You are always welcome here, Julian.”</p><p>It was easy to accuse the bard of cowardice when he simply thanked the love of his life.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, truth is, I don't know how many chapters this story will be. </p><p>TW for heavy mentions of death, and thoughts about death. You can skip from "jaskier the bard" to "nothing good for anyone, kid". And read the last line, it's important.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Corvo Bianco could have been a peaceful estate, if not for the feral growls and the clash of steel among raucous laughter. Geralt felt his lips stretch a little over the rim of his glass, observing his daughter holding her ground against her two uncles. What she may have lacked in terms of pure mass, she made up for being far more agile than the two old witchers. Hands on the ground, she used her legs to grab Lambert by the neck and project him straight into the lavender bushes. </p><p>“Is that even legal?!” her victim yelled, trying to swat away the bees interested in the pollen covering his person. </p><p>“That’s for calling me ‘princess’!”</p><p>“I take it back, you’re a filthy wench!” Both bared their teeth, smiling through the banter. </p><p>“Looks too personal for me to get caught in-between,” Eskel declared, planting his practice sword in the ground, before realizing he ruined the lawn and trying to cover the hole with his foot. Geralt threw a pillow at his head with deadly accuracy, making their audience cheer. </p><p>“I’m not fixing your mess,” warned Yennefer, sipping a glass of iced tea under the gazebo. “You better learn gardening, dear Eskel.”</p><p>At her side, Julian clinked their glasses together in approval. His eyes were obscured by tinted lenses, but his grin still showed through his tailored beard. They both reclined on chairs Geralt didn’t even know were in his possession, exchanging quips and gossips like two vegetable sellers on a market day. The sorceress and the professor shared elegant manners, gaudy clothing and lightning-fast wit. It was no wonder they got along like a house on fire. </p><p>The heavy arrival of Eskel at his side on the lawn dragged Geralt’s gaze away from the professor’s sinful cambric shirt. Winter hadn’t managed to snag its claws on the region yet, leaving them with a few blessed days of sunshine before the ice. He suspected Yennefer may be to thank for it.</p><p>“She fights like a wild cat, you taught her well. Almost got me when she did that thing with the detachable blade, really clever,” Eskel panted. “Poor Lambert will taste more grass than a snail at that rate.”</p><p>Geralt smirked, the image of his brother on all fours with a shell on his back trying to graze the lawn coming to his mind with sharp vivacity.</p><p>“It’s good to see your ugly mugs again.”</p><p>“If not for Ciri, I wouldn’t have made the sacrifice of seeing yours with my own bare eyes,” the other man snorted. “Look at our professor over there, having to wear glasses to protect himself.”</p><p>There was no sight he wished he could look at more, yet Geralt remained focused on the sparring match. They were ruining his garden. He felt incredibly ancient for thinking they were. The air was heavy with the scent of bruised grass and warm stone, as well as a few other things. Lilac and gooseberries, which didn’t grow on the estate, and a cologne imitating sea wind, which he only knew how to describe as ‘blue’. Sweat, of course, and Ciri’s new fancy for mint liquor. Though overpowering and not as pleasant as one could think, it was the smell of his family. A younger version of himself would have probably needed to retreat from the associated feelings. Geralt allowed himself to smile instead. </p><p>“How does it feel to be the ugliest man in the world in a garden of beauties?” asked Lambert, having overheard their conversation. “Except for that raccoon girl you’ve got here, which is certainly the worst- Oomph!” </p><p>Ciri laughed from where she stood, having tackled the other man with her full weight. The tip of her sword found his neck, giving her full victory over the grunting old man. “You owe me fifty orens,” she declared. </p><p>“What for, being a cheating little minx?”</p><p>“All’s fair in love as in war, ain’t that right Prof?” She turned her head towards where the man still lounged, extending a hand toward her adversary.</p><p>“Couldn’t have phrased it better myself, dear Cirilla.”</p><p>“Stop flirting with my niece,” Lambert chuckled, rising to his feet with her help. “You’ve already won over half the people here, leave some for the rest of us dashing witchers.”</p><p>“Except Geralt,” Ciri added with a grin.</p><p>“Except Geralt,” he nodded in approval.</p><p>“How about I kick out the lot of you and eat the cake myself?” Geralt growled, making the assembly chuckle. Not nearly as impressive as he used to be.</p><p>“Do not worry, my dear wolf, those of us who have eyes know the truth is otherwise,” said Julian, aiming one of his lethal smiles his way. </p><p>There were many a rumor about witcher’s physical capabilities, their lack of emotion, their inability to blush. The latter was true, and never had he been gladder for it. Forcing his eyes away from the tantalizing professor, Geralt pretended he needed more wine to face the present company. If the elbow Eskel lodged in his ribs was any indication, he didn’t fool anyone. </p><p>Isolated in the dim, cool cellar, his thoughts regained a sheen of rationality. He had a party to plan, guests to accommodate, a house to manage. The kind of responsibilities no respectable witcher ever expected thrust in their hands along their short, violent lives. Just like cats never became truly tame, even under the care of the most benevolent masters. Having a family wasn’t usually compatible with the Path, except the ersatz offered by Kaer Morhen when one became old enough to think about training new generations. </p><p>Now, he just had to wait for Destiny to tear away everything he cared about, as it always did. </p><p>“So you really did go for another bottle, uh? I thought you’d go to cry in Roach’s mane,” said the professor in a low voice, teasing.</p><p>“Witchers can’t cry.”</p><p>“Can’t or won’t?” Propped against one of the shelves, Julian observed him intensely, a neutral smile on his lips. He had pushed his glasses up in his hair, which managed to tousle it in an elegant way. On Geralt, the effect would have been much less aesthetic and more lunatic.</p><p>“Can’t. Except when we sneeze too hard.”</p><p>The professor’s chuckle reverberated on the thick stone walls, bouncing in his ears like a caress. Whatever space was left between them barely allowed for his arms to cross, should he wish to do so. When had they caught each other’s orbit again? Geralt wondered, not for the first of thousands of times, what would happen if he dissolved that small, empty space to naught.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me why you left?” Julian asked softly, placing his too-warm palm on Geralt’s arm. </p><p>“You were busy.” A lie, born out of cowardice and aching restraint.</p><p>“My presence here, now, is proof enough that it’s not true.” His thumb brushed wildfires on Geralt’s skin through the cloth of his shirt. </p><p>“Your students-”</p><p>“Are the reason why I pretty much left everything on hold to catch up to you. Had I not met your brothers, I would still be on the road chasing your shadow.” Julian’s cologne, heated by sunlight, wrapped around him in ways impossible to ignore. Geralt could taste it on his tongue. </p><p>“I didn’t know- I thought you would be embarrassed. Not knowing anyone. But you knew Lambert and Eskel from before.” </p><p>The professor’s face scrunched in an unpleasant frown, captivating eyes sliding to the side. His hand fell and Geralt wished nothing as dearly as to having it back. </p><p>“About that… There is something you should know, about me. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, but I thought you were, well, aware of the situation.” Julian pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a devastating step back. “It’s just- I know there will be a fight, and you’ll possibly tell me to fuck off again. And if you tell me to fuck off, then I’ll get angry because this really is your fault, though given the circumstances I couldn’t blame you for-”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” asked Geralt, astonished at the raw pain in his voice. “I never told you that.”</p><p>The spice of Julian’s anger sparked through the air, leaving no trace of the mellow warmth in his eyes. Not cruelty, not yet, but resentment.</p><p>“Yes, you have. And I was right, this is going to be a fight so just forget it.”</p><p>Geralt was tired of the subtext he was supposed to guess, of his own resolve and of what he could never have. His nails dug in his palms.</p><p>“If you don’t even fucking tell me what this is about, then yes there will be one.” He took a step forward. The other man didn’t budge, but his shoulders squared and a storm gathered in his eyes.</p><p>“That’s the big issue, you see? I have to tell you, because you can’t remember people’s faces on your own,” Julian accused, rising an accusing finger toward him.</p><p>“I don’t understand, but you’re starting to seriously piss me off.”</p><p>The cellar was too small for the rising volume of their voices.</p><p>“Let it go, I should have never brought this up. Stay happy and ignorant, that’s what you do best.” Venom pierced through Julian’s voice. Cruel at last. </p><p>“Fuck you!” He shouted, banging his fist against the dusty wood of the wine racks. </p><p>“Fuck you too, Geralt.” The professor’s voice suddenly dropped to an icy calm, a detached rage brewed for far longer than they had known each other. “If that’s anything to you, I’ve always been in love with you, and you’ve done nothing but making me regret it.”</p><p>Then he was gone.</p><p>His anger fell like sudden rain, choking the fire in its own bed. Geralt felt the dusty wood against his back, heard the bottles clink in their slots. The words kept replaying over and over, puzzle pieces clashing in great sparks, trying to fit together as one. Almost two hundred years since his first wail, perhaps one hundred more until his last. It was easy to forget the passing of time, even when his own daughter went from frightened cub to fierce lioness. Easier was heartbreak when witchers dared to ignore the passing of time. </p><p>Julian Alfred Pankratz, viscount de Lettenhove. Also known as Jaskier the bard. It was simple math. His father would most likely be long dead, over seventy years old. Most men weep when they hold their grandchildren, feeling death’s breath freezing the back of their necks. The professor was old enough to know the reaper’s shadow in the steps he took. Geralt saw it often at a distance, looking for the right opportunity but never waiting for time to be his end. It simply wasn’t the way of the world. </p><p>Geralt would never know the kindness of old age, no matter the illusions he lathered upon himself hoping it would take away the grime. Yennefer had told him once, drunk in sunlight and vodka, “you’re a tough piece of shit, Geralt”. The charcoal of her eyelids had been imprinted on his collar, still damp hours after. “But one day, one day someone will get you. Not a something, because you’re the best. Someone. Maybe me, who knows? Maybe I’ll be fed up with your bullshit and stab your big tits. Or a fellow wolf, or just a nobody peasant with his pants thoroughly pissed and a pitchfork through your core. Beats withering away as an old, debilitated, moldy living corpse who can’t eat on his own. I hate you, my love, but even I wouldn’t wish that upon you.”</p><p>Then, in Ciri’s eyes he lived thousands of lives and this was his last one. She feared the day he’d be gone, in body or in mind. As a little girl already, she drank the stories he told far worse than a bard could as if listening to a priest. Geralt finally understood now, why parents saw eternal life in their children’s eyes. But men died. White took their hair, fell it to the ground as well as their teeth, fogged their eyes and clogged their ears. </p><p>But witchers lived on. Age siege them but never wins. Death ravishes witchers by blade, poison or flames, quickly if they have any luck. Never by age. “And I rather prefer to die like a dog who never fell for that trap of love, because that kills you inside -but truth is, it never kills you at all.” Vesemir had looked in the flames, bitter. “There’s pus in your heart and it just festers. That’s what love is. Nothing good for anyone, kid.”</p><p>Jaskier, who had been in love for twenty-two years with him. And him, barely for one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Huge thanks to daryshkart for their incredible artwork of silver fox!jaskier which inspired this fic in the first place! Don't hesitate to check their tumblr for more amazing art.</p><p>Also thanks to Nakarem and Frankie over the Witcher discord for their review and insights!</p><p>The story is not over, so far I have mostly two big narrative axis. However, there will probably be some drabbles and short chapters after I'm done with chapter 2!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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